


C'est la vie say the old folks, goes to show you never can tell

by halfhardtorock



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Threesome - F/M/M, Unsafe Sex, white collar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfhardtorock/pseuds/halfhardtorock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That preseries fic where Peter and Neal fall in love during the chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	C'est la vie say the old folks, goes to show you never can tell

1

He's running on jet fumes and airline coffee after puddle hopping two days earlier and then taking the red eye to Colorado, when he gets a call, still in baggage claim, from DC's Art Crimes. He's asleep on his feet, but perks at the words **Warhol. Caffrey** and **it's not what you think**.

"It never is," he mutters to himself and snaps his phone shut. Runs a hand over his sleepy face.

He's back in the air in an hour and lands in DC late in the afternoon.

  
Jefferson's a good guy, or at least he's a Yankees fan, but today he's frazzled and barking at his probie like the kid forgot to wipe his ass for him.

"Sorry," he says to Peter and walks him through. "--long goddamn week."

"I bet," Peter sympathizes, knows how Neal Caffrey sets a fire wherever he goes, turns the heat on. There are a lot of unhappy people with a lot of money who are getting tired of Neal Caffrey's sticky fingers.

"This one though, bet you never saw one like this," Jefferson says with a tired smile and Peter frowns. Because it's never good, when Neal surprises him.

Hester Aster-Chadwick is the 83 year old widow of the late Brant Chadwick, and she sits there in front of three stony FBI agents and the AD and refuses to report her stolen painting.

AD Nielson stops talking to put a hand to his forehead, collecting himself. And then he says, once more "But you filed a report with your insurance company--"

"Well, I'll retract it," she says serenely.

Jefferson splutters. Nielson grimaces, says "--you _can't_ retract it."

"Ms. Chadwick," Peter says, calm. "Tell me how it happened."

And she told him how this beautiful man in a beautiful suit came into her house after dinner. "No man dressed so meticulously is out to hurt anyone," she explains. By the end of the evening, she 'let him' take the Warhol.

"You let him," Peter responds dryly.

"Oh yes, I despised that thing. It was my second husband's and it was awful. Ugly, florescent flowers. Just an eyesore."

Jefferson makes a sorrowful noise.

"And that's all he took? Nothing else?" Peter asks.

"Oh yes, I asked him not to touch the renaissance pieces in the ballroom. I find them quite transcendental. He told me they were worth more anyway, and the Warhol was just a little bitty canvas."

Peter looks inquiringly at Jefferson, who sighs and nods. "There was a _Botticelli_ , Burke. And he didn't even blow the dust off it."

Peter frowns. Hester Chadwick touches at her hair, politely impatient for them to finish.

After a moment, he asks her "was he worth it?"

And Hester looks him dead in the eye and says "He was _exquisite_."

2

He's eating a tuna fish sandwich in the interior garden at the MFA Boston, bitching to the curator Famke Muller about it.

"It was the second year in a row that I'd missed El's birthday. She takes it in stride, always has, but she's started calling Caffrey the 'other wife'."

Famke almost chokes on her coffee.

"It's hilarious. I know. _Hilarious_. Neal Caffrey...I want to say it's hard to believe he'd come back to Boston after what he did to the Gardner, but the kid is nervy as hell."

"Audacious!" Famke jokes, waving a fist in the air.

Peter smiles. "Blue eyed devil."

Afterwards, he goes over every detail of that sunny afternoon lunch with Famke. He remembers: There was a beautiful woman at the fountain with a toddler. And an Asian-American student with a notebook, sitting a few tables away eating macaroni salad from the food court. And an older gentleman in the red scarf, looking at the cherry trees with a camera on his arm.

But even after scouring his memory, he still can't place Caffrey. 

A week before their 5th wedding anniversary, he gets a card in the mail. He's in his sweats, ready to putter around, help El in the backyard. The postage is from Ontario and he looks at the oddly familiar handwriting for a moment before he swears and realizes what he's holding.

In his quiet living room, he rips open his briefcase and grabs a couple disposable gloves.

El comes in to find him sitting on the couch, gloved hand to his mouth, deep in thought.

"What is it?" she asks, worried.

"It's Neal," he says. And when she waits for more, he snaps out of it and flips the card over for her to see.

"He sent you a card?"

"He sent _us_ a card," he tells her. " _Dear Peter and Elizabeth_ ," he reads. " _It has come to my attention that Peter has spent the last two of your birthdays with me instead of at home where he belongs. I am indebted to you, lovely Elizabeth, for letting me borrow him so often, but this can not go on. I hereby call a moratorium on business-as-usual for three weeks while you celebrate your anniversary. Enjoy. Get some rest, Peter. I expect you back on your feet by the 1st._

with great affection,

Neal Caffrey

PS Ontario is boring this time of year"

Peter taps it on his knee and gives El a long-suffering look. She sits beside him with a helpless smile, starts rubbing his shoulders.

"Do you need to go?" she asks.

"I don't know," he says, thinking. After a while, he places the card back in its envelope and into an evidence baggie. "I don't know."

Later on that night, he switches on the lamp and turns over to El, says "Honey? El?"

She stiffens, so he rubs her hip, says "Shhh, there's nothing wrong. But I think...I think I'm gonna let this ride. See what he does."

"Neal?" she asks, voice thick and half-asleep.

"Yeah, Neal," he agrees, and then realizes he just woke his wife up at 2 in the morning to talk to her about Neal Caffrey.

"'kay," she agrees and rolls over and back to sleep.

He settles spooned behind her, gnawing at his inner cheek in thought.

True to his word, Neal goes silent, utterly silent, for three weeks.

They go dancing on their anniversary, see a movie the next day. He spends a few evenings doing crazy things, sneaking into the bath with her, barbecuing after work, making love at 5 pm.

But when the 1st comes, he's antsy. Ready. Chomping at the bit.

And Neal doesn't disappoint, _ohhh no_ , Neal knocks over the Rothko chapel in Houston and makes out with a Barnett Newman. And not just any Barnett Newman, but his three ton, Cor-Ten steel obelisk.

"How did he even _move_ that?" Hughes laments as Peter flips through the paperwork.

Later on the phone, Elizabeth tries to be positive. "Well, at least he's got excellent taste."

3

He slurs this to Neal, that night in Wisconsin.

"Yeah, I know. It's Newman's seminal work," Neal groans as he lifts him.

Neal's face. He's never seen it this close. And it's gorgeous. Of course it is. Of course he is. Even now, when his face is so care-lined and upset.

"Pretty," Peter says, tongue thick, and pats Neal on the cheek.

Neal lifts him from under his arms, makes these little sounds of unhappiness as he drags Peter from his bed in the snow and into the dark, chilled motel room. There's a dead man on the floor in the entryway, red flash of blood in the snow drifting in.

"--dead?" Peter mutters and the overhead light in the bathroom is a white-fire when it goes on, makes Peter jerk away from it, clonk his head on something hard and porcelain.

"Jesus, Peter. Jesus," Neal keeps saying and he's running water in the bath, climbing over Peter and then back over Peter. Leaving the room and returning. Every time, appearing and saying "Jesus, Peter."

He has some trouble lifting Peter into the bathtub. Peter tries to help, but he has no legs. He can't feel his legs.

"Here, just--" Neal grunts softly at his ear and then there is _heat_. The water's so hot it feels cold at first, and then the _scald_ comes and makes his whole body contract in on itself in defense.

He shouts himself hoarse and Neal says "I'm sorry. I didn't know! I didn't know--"

The water turns blood pink and there's a siren wailing, faraway at first but bearing down.

He owls up at the kid through wet eyelashes, sees Neal peering down at him with a pale, frantic look on his face. And he can't help but ask the kid "Did he hurt you too?"

Neal's eyes spasm shut and he shakes his head, damp curls moving around, falling on his forehead.

And then he gives Peter a hand-squeeze and disappears.

  
He wakes up in Aurora Memorial with Elizabeth holding his hand, touching his cheek carefully.

"You ok?" she asks first.

He takes a second to assess the damage. His lungs burn and he's definitely got some frostbite on his extremities. And the graze wound on his upper left arm is sore but looks sewn together neatly. His head still hurts like hell. But he nods, says "Water?"

She gives him a sip from a straw, smiles that shaky way she does when she's trying to be brave for him.

"I love you. I love you. But I need to give someone my statement," he tells her. She squeezes his hand and gets up, adjusts her jacket and goes looking for an agent.

He tells the agent, he was just getting back from dinner when Caffrey's 'business partner' jumped him. The man was waiting for Peter in his room in the dark. The shot grazed Peter's arm. Peter stumbled out the door, pulled his weapon and fired twice. One bullet hit the gunman in the leg, the other was the kill shot. The gunman went down in the doorway, face-forward. 

Then Peter slipped on the icy pavement and hit his head.

He must have lain in the snow for a half-hour before Neal found him and dragged him inside.

Peter shakes his head, exasperated. "He saved my life."

"Neal Caffrey's not a killer," the agent tells him, like Peter doesn't know. Like Peter didn't write the goddamn report that they all go by.

"He won't work with anyone again," Peter promises Elizabeth while they eat take-out at his hospital bed. "He'll consult with people he trusts, but he'll never do more than one-man jobs after this."

"What was he like?" she asks him.

Peter smiles a little wistfully. "I wish I could remember." And then he adds "Pretty."

She chuckles around her fork.

He gets a call on his work phone, maybe a month and a half later. He's filling out a report on the handbag seizure and picks it up with an absentminded "Mmm, Burke here."

 _Hey_ , a voice says with affection.

It sparks something in his brain, a memory. Blue eyes. Blue, blue eyes.

_You already know who this is, don't you?_

"Neal," Peter blurts, and then scrambles out of his seat, throws open the door to his office and waves his arm at Diana in the bullpen. _Neal Caffrey_ , he mouths at her.

She jumps up with several other agents and there's a flurry of movement as they rush to set up the trace.

_Oh, come on, Peter. We both know there's not going to be time for that._

"What do you want?" Peter asks, and he's surprised his voice doesn't crack with all the adrenaline storming through him.

_Just to see if you're all right. And to apologize. It won't happen again._

"I didn't think so," Peter says, hand on his hip, pleased with himself. And then he snaps out of it and says "Where are you? It sounds quiet there. Is it nighttime?"

Neal chuckles low. It sends sparks up Peter's spine. He can feel the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise.

_You'll find out soon enough. Glad to hear your voice, Peter. Love to Elizabeth._

And then the dial tone.

His hand is jumping when he replaces the receiver.

"Anything?" he asks Diana when she hangs up her line. She shakes her head.

"Nothing, but I got an audio file."

Peter grins at her. He couldn't hold it back if he wanted to. Rubs his hands together. "Nicely done. Get the team together by 1300. We're going over this with a fine tooth comb."

There's nothing there. No background sounds. No interference. But Peter listens to it over and over, and every time he hears that chuckle, he's got to fist up his hands to stop himself from twitching.

4

They bring in an attractive young man with dark hair and blue eyes and a little smirk on his face. Peter takes one look at him and says "That's not Neal Caffrey."

But the Los Angeles bureau is pretty adamant that it is.

"You're not Neal Caffrey," Peter tells him. "I've met Neal Caffrey."

The man just grins and shrugs. He isn't talking now, though they said he wouldn't stop yammering away on the drive over, bragging about what he did in Nice three years ago.

"Neal Caffrey wouldn't brag about _Nice_ \--" Peter argues

"That's a classic! It's a Caffrey classic! They teach it at Quantico--" the agent in charge says in his defense.

"Yes, and anyone in this business could tell it, but not him. Not Caffrey. He's not going to implicate himself for something that he isn't being booked on. Use your brain."

The guy just shakes his head and turns his attention on his buzzing office. Everyone's come in to get a good look at the kid.

"I've met Neal Caffrey! That is not him!" Peter calls, but no one listens.

It's on KTLA in the morning, which is going to cause a shitstorm in DC when they get their heads out of their asses and realize they've got the wrong guy.

 _It's not him, is it?_ Elizabeth asks over the phone.

"I love you," Peter says with relief. "No. It's definitely not him."

 _Hm. Is he even close?_ she wonders.

"Not even close," Peter says fervently.

_He's not nearly handsome enough, is he?_

"Exactly," Peter agrees and then stutters "I mean, the guy doesn't even look like him, El."

 _Mmm-hm,_ Elizabeth hums in amusement.

  
Three days. It takes three days. And an elevator ride.

The BSU agent gets off at his lab on the 3rd floor and at the last second, before the doors close again, an agent in his blue field jacket and hat steps on with him.

And then turns to Peter, removes his hat and says "Can we both agree that that guy upstairs is not even remotely close?"

Peter's mouth fishes open and closed as Neal reaches over and brushes his hair back with his fingers and adds "And they're wasting your time with this? What's up with that?"

He has Neal face-first to the wall, hands in cuffs before he can even respond with a gritted " _Neal_."

"Good to see your strength's up," Neal winces when Peter flips him around.

"I should have known you'd never roll over and let someone else take the credit. Neal Caffrey, caught by his own vanity." And even to his own ears, he sounds disappointed.

Neal rolls his eyes like Peter just told him to get a haircut, punk. "Peter, you know me better than that. Think about it."

And Peter does, his brain bounding forward as Neal waits, panting quickly through his mouth like the adrenaline rush is mutual.

"Someone's setting you up."

" _Yes_ ," Neal breathes, and a hopelessly delighted smile breaks on his face. 

Peter looks him over, frowning. "Explain."

"There's an LA fence. Starke. He's had it in for me since... _Well_. Lets just say a while. I might have acquired a certain hot commodity that I'm looking to get off my hands before they start burning, but Starke went and slapped my identity on some kid and now no one's interested--"

"--because now you're nobody, with no name and no reputation," Peter guesses and Neal nods with a righteous look on his face, like Peter's going to fix this. Like it's Peter's job to right this injustice.

Peter looks at him for a long, serious moment and then laughs.

Neal watches, eyes widening.

"What is it, the Hockney? Tell me it's the Hockney?" Peter guesses, voice thin from laughing.

Neal frowns. "No."

The elevator pings at the bottom and Peter wonders aloud "So you came here, to a federal building swarming with agents, to complain to me about your ridiculous problems fencing a stolen painting. Did you even think this through?"

And Neal smiles brilliantly and says "Yes," and hands Peter his handcuffs.

And of course, that's just _exactly_ when the elevator doors open and set the kid free. Peter bolts after him, but Neal is slick. His lean hips swivel between the cafeteria chairs while Peter clangs into each one of them.

"Stop him! Damnit, that's Neal Caffrey!" Peter yells.

But everyone just stares in disbelief, because they've all seen 'Caffrey' now, the kid upstairs, the impostor.

Peter swears under his breath, chases Neal to the stairs and all the way up to the roof, where Neal gives him a quick grin over his shoulder and jumps.

Peter cries out at the sight, then flushes hot in embarrassment when he peers over the side and sees the kid bouncing down safely in a recycling dumpster below that's filled with papers and boxes.

Neal stops in an alleyway, looks back and waves.

"Goddamnit, Neal," Peter grumbles.

5

They're both at the salad bar, see each other at the same time and freeze.

Peter glares at him, betrayed, because he's been on the field all day and night and _now_ , now Neal shows up? At the salad bar in the Lake Placid Howard Johnson's.

"Wow. Hey," Neal says, and makes a face at the awkwardness.

" _What are you doing here_?" Peter hisses across the kidney bean salad.

"I'm eating dinner," Neal says, and his face pinks.

Peter stares at him in disbelief. "...at the Howard Johnson's?"

"Money's a little tight. That thing in LA put me back a bit," Neal says defensively.

"I can't believe this. I can't believe this. This is not real," Peter says, hand to his face. He can't do this right now. He's going to kill him. He's going to die of hunger and exhaustion.

"Take it easy," Neal hisses. "Look. Lets just call a truce. Eat dinner in peace and pick up where we left off tomorrow."

Peter laughs, feeling a little hysterical while Neal looks up at him with a growing smile and says "What do you say, Peter? Have dinner with me?"

"Why the Howard Johnson's?" Neal asks him.

"Cheap. And for nostalgia's sake," Peter says, cutting up his chicken breast.

"Mmm, same here. Used to go to one when I was a kid, every Sunday after church," Neal says.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Never took you for that kind."

"What kind?" Neal wonders.

"The religious kind."

Neal shrugs. "I was just a kid."

"Tell me more about that. Little Neal Caffrey. Before the swagger--"

"--Oh, I had swagger. I had lots of swagger," Neal flirts, leaning in closer on his elbows.

"Yeah, I bet you did," Peter says, not even trying to hide his fondness.

They gaze at each other for a minute, grinning. And then Neal looks away, face flushed.

"What about you? Peter Burke, before the suit."

Peter shakes his head. "Oh, I don't know. Peter Burke. Gangly. Bookish. Junior Varsity--"

"I bet you were so--" Neal starts and then grins to himself, shakes his head.

"What?" Peter wonders.

"--adorable," Neal finishes, smiling.

Peter snorts. "No."

"Come on. Little Peter Burke, growing into those big hands. You were a doll, admit it," Neal goads.

"Not everyone is Neal Caffrey. Some of us had to grow up being hideously average."

"So you don't think I'm hideously average, then, Peter?" Neal perks up.

Peter can't help the way he smiles. Like it's stuck on his face. "Are you going to eat, or are you going to flirt with me?"

"Flirt," Neal says instantly.

Peter shakes his head. "Unbelievable."

"What?"

"You're good. You're good at this," he admits.

And then Neal grins, wide and beautiful. "I know."

  
Neal walks him out to his rental car and they stand there together, cold hands shoved in their jacket pockets.

"When will I see you again?" Neal asks wistfully.

"Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in the back of a squad car," Peter says, pleased with the idea.

Neal rolls his eyes. "Don't wait up."

"I'm not," Peter promises and opens the door.

He feels the warm touch to his cold cheek and then it's gone. It takes him a breath to realize that Neal Caffrey just kissed him goodnight and he missed it.

He stares at him for a second, startled.

Neal's face is all open, inquiring. Nervous. "Goodnight, Peter. It was great running into you."

Peter nods, speechless and watches the man walk off, cutting into the wind, his brown curls sweeping back off his forehead.

  
6

Neal chums the waters in April, gets the marshals all in a frenzy over an electronic receipt from the MOMA with a little watercolor of a bird on the back and an interestingly worded note scrawled beneath it.

There's something, something pinging him the first time he flips it over in evidence.

"So he's casing the MOMA," Hughes sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Peter, I don't think we'll be keeping our jobs if Neal pulls off another heist in this city."

"No, it's not the MOMA. That's too easy. What is he trying to say?"

"What do you mean, it's not the MOMA? He was there two days ago, when the Brancusi went up," Hughes flips the file shut like he's solved the case.

"Brancusi--" Peter starts.

"Yes, _Bird in Space_. We already checked this angle, Peter. This is it. We'll need a team on site, 24/7 surveillance. Do you think Jones--"

"I'm telling you, it's _not_ the MOMA--"

And then they get into an argument about it and Hughes slaps his hand on the table when Peter pushes too far and says "That's it. You got the week off. I don't want to even see you at your desk."

Peter sits down hard, legs shaky. They'd been on their feet, shouting at each other. "This is my case, Reese," he says throatily.

"Not this week. Listen Peter, I'm not going to shut you out on this but you need a break from Caffrey. This isn't the Peter Burke I know. He's getting to you. Take the week off. Spend some time with your wife. We'll handle the MOMA."

"It's not the MOMA," Peter mutters to himself as he leaves the office, tie off and twisted up in his hand.

He doesn't go home at first, ashamed. Knowing El will give him that look, like she's sorry. Like she wishes she could make it better.

He sits on a bench and drinks a Snapple and lets his mind drift back to the note on the MOMA receipt.

And then it's like a bolt of electricity and he jolts out of his seat, spills juice all over his sleeve.

"Damnit, Neal--" he says to himself out of habit and grins.

  
 _Technique is what you fall back on when you run out of inspiration_. Neal had written. Which google tells him is a Rudolf Nureyev quote.

"Rudolf Nureyev?" Peter wonders out loud.

It's simple from there. In four days, there's an unprecedented Nureyev retrospective going up at the Wyeth Center in Rockland, Maine. The watercolor bird is easy, classic Wyeth.

But it's the MOMA that seals it. They've just taken down Andrew's _Christina's World_ , and it's on loan to the Brandywine River Museum.

"He's trying to say he came back to New York to see a Wyeth, but the MOMA's thwarted him. So he's on his way to Maine, because the retrospective intrigued him," Peter says in triumph. He stuffs a fist full of socks in his overnight bag.

"What about the watercolor?" El asks, picking through his ties for the best and grabbing a sweater out of the drawer.

"See, the bird's the final clue. Maybe he's following _Christina's World_ to Chadd's Ford, maybe he's going to Maine? The bird is a seagull. Chadd's Ford is landlocked. He's going to Maine."

El sighs and nods in agreement. "Sounds like you've got him figured out, Agent Burke."

Peter grins, presses a kiss to her mouth that gets out of control, turns wet and groaning. She's flushed all pretty when he pulls away. "You're all riled up."

"Yeah," he says, a little lost. "I guess I--"

"Ok! Well. Get those pants off mister! You have ten minutes before you have to hit the road to catch that flight."

"God, El," he says, tearing open his belt as she squirms out of her pajama bottoms.

  
He's right. He _knows_ he's right, but it doesn't stop his heart from having a minor episode when he walks into the back gallery of the Nureyev retrospective and finds Neal Caffrey standing there, looking heartbreakingly attractive in a dark blue, cashmere sweater and grey slacks.

Neal looks around to see who is interrupting his quiet study and then turns when he finds Peter, and there it is. That Neal Caffrey smile. Ridiculous.

Peter feels his face returning it tenfold before he can lock it down.

They just stand there alone, grinning.

"I didn't think you'd come," Neal says after a moment. Peter clears his throat.

"How long have you been waiting?"

Neal shrugs. "Two days. Give or take. Where's everybody?"

Peter joins him. "They're not here. They're in New York, keeping an eye on a Brancusi."

Neal looks at him, surprised. "You're alone?"

"Yep," Peter says, and takes in the piece Neal had been appraising. Nureyev in black fur.

Neal seems to ponder this. And then he makes a scandalized noise " _Brancusi_."

"It's worth a heck of a lot more than these," Peter says, gesturing around the gallery.

Neal shrugs, all loose-limbed nonchalance. "Maybe I'm done with abstracts. They're so obvious."

Peter chuckles and suddenly Neal threads their arms together like lovers on a stroll.

"What are you doing?" Peter asks, startled.

With a little jerk of his chin, Peter notices the elderly couple who've joined them.

"Shhh, don't break my cover," Neal says, eyes dancing.

Peter scoffs, tries to remove his arm. "Your cover...If you lifted my wallet--"

Neal rolls his eyes. "Are we going to have a quarrel right here? They'll think my sugar daddy is a big thug--"

"Neal," Peter mutters, "let go of my arm."

"Just walk with me. For a few minutes. Look at the gallery. Then we can go get dinner and talk," Neal tells him.

Peter takes a deep, sustaining breath and gives him the darkest look he can muster.

Neal bites back his smile. "Peter, I really appreciate this."

They walk slowly through the gallery, Neal's arm locked with his. Peter is hyper-aware like he can feel, through his jacket, the softness of the cashmere, the warmth of Neal's body.

"Damn, you know, you always smell so good," Neal confides to him and Peter makes a face, jerks his arm away in annoyance.

  
They're in his rental car when it all catches up to him. Neal's _good_. Real good. Good enough that he even gets Peter distracted, caught up in the play, in the excitement. In that smile. He braces himself against the steering wheel and sighs.

"What?" Neal asks, voice so quiet he's almost whispering.

"I should bring you in. Damnit," Peter rubs his face, looks at him. "I should really bring you in, Neal. Right now. What am I doing?--"

Neal touches his knee lightly, carefully. "It's ok. It's...we'll call a moratorium--"

"There are no moratoriums, Neal. This is real life. You can't call a moratorium on life. The fact that you even _think_ there are moratoriums just makes me want to bring you in. Do you have any idea what's at stake here?"

"What, some spoiled CEO's showy art investment?--" Neal bitches.

"No, damnit. My job. My livelihood. My credibility. My _marriage_ \--" Peter starts listing off.

"I would never hurt Elizabeth," Neal vows.

"This is hurting her! This whole chase has crippled our marriage. She calls you my--"

"--'other wife', I know," Neal says sullenly.

Peter whoops, spooking Neal. "Aha! I knew it. I _knew_ you were in Boston that day."

Neal stares at him, surprised. And then rolls his eyes. "Yes, Peter," he says indulgently.

"I knew it. Where were you? I didn't see you."

"Yeah, you did," Neal says.

"No I didn't. Where?"

Neal is grinning now, blue eyes mischievous. "I was babysitting a friend's kid that day. Little guy, by the fountain." And then he waits and watches as it dawns on Peter.

"Oh no," Peter says, shaking his head. "No way."

"Yeah, but. Don't ask me to do it again. I lost the lady-wig in Dallas."

Peter sits back, bowled over. "Jesus, Neal."

"I was gorgeous, right?" Neal preens.

Peter shakes his head, chuckles weakly. "Jesus."

"I am gorgeous. Right?" Neal says again, but this time it's earnest. He's looking at Peter with those eyes, mouth parted and soft and Peter gapes.

He's a man who prides himself on his deductive reasoning. Even discounting these unconventional meetups, he's gotten close to Neal, close enough to nearly grab him by the coattails. Always a step behind, keeping up with Neal's cleverness like no one else could. He's gotten this far, yet it hits him like a brick to the face when he realizes suddenly why he's here now, with Neal.

"Oh no, that is not where this is going. That is _not_ happening," Peter hisses.

"Peter--"

"I'm not one of those cliche wash-out cases. No. No. This is not happening--"

" _Peter_ ," Neal insists. "This is already happening. This is where it was always going."

Peter's face is on fire. He can't think. He's flooded with pride. Helpless pride that he's caught Neal's eye. That Neal Caffrey, who could have anything with a pulse, would even look at him, consider him that way. It reminds him of when he realized that he'd won Elizabeth over, how goddamn lucky he felt.

And then his stomach turns over and he drops his forehead into the steering wheel. "It's a con, isn't it? The long one."

Neal is silent for a beat too long before he says, "Peter, _no_ ," with all this feeling.

"Ha. Right. You'd seduce an elderly widow to bed for a Warhol, why not the head agent on your case for some amnesty?"

Neal sputters. "I _never_ slept with Hester."

Peter gives him the side-eye.

"We danced. That's all. It was all very chaste," Neal tells him soothingly.

"She let you have the Warhol for a _dance_."

"I'm a good dancer," Neal tells him, and a little of that smugness twitches at his lip again, makes him grin.

"God," Peter sighs, falling back into his seat. "Well, I'm not some lonely old widow with money to spare. I've got a beautiful wife and a mortgage. I'm not doing this dance with you."

"I told you, I'd never hurt Elizabeth--" Neal argues.

"Oh, you just want a roll around in the sheets with her husband?"

"No!" Neal says and then his face clears and " _Yes_. Yes, of course. But no it's not just..." He looks away, frustrated. Peter's skin is all prickled up, awake, just being close to Neal. Neal stares out the window, rubbing at his mouth like he's getting his thoughts in order and then he turns back.

"I used to play cat and mouse with you because you were so uptight, so dour. Peter Burke the sourpuss. But you changed when you got married. You're _playful_ now. You play with me. Elizabeth is lovely, Peter. She's lovely. She showed the first Sislej Xhafa in New York, before anyone else had heard of him. She's brilliant. How could I hurt her?"

"This _will_ hurt her, Neal," Peter promises him.

"No, just. You have to trust me," Neal says, clear-eyed.

And he gets all of it. This whole thing. The MOMA receipt. The Brancusi fake-out. It was a date. Neal's idea of an invitation to dinner.

"You have to get out of the car," Peter tells him.

"Please, Peter--" Neal begs.

"Get out," Peter says. "And the next time I see you, no more truces. No more games. No more cons. The next time I see you, you're going in. You're done."

Neal looks at him, stunned. And then his mouth snaps shut and he opens the car door.

Peter swallows, because he might have done the right thing, but damn. Sometimes doing the right thing feels like getting kicked in the chest.

"This isn't over," Neal tells him.

"You're right, this will be over when you're in that jumpsuit," Peter agrees harshly.

Neal sighs, shuts the door behind him and melts away.

7

His team is running security the night before the AMNH's new exhibit, _The Nature of Diamonds_ goes on display because there was a tip-off that Raymond Koster had been seen skulking around the place, watching security set-up and the diamonds coming in off their armored trucks.

Things go to hell around midnight when the power clangs to a stop and in the dark there are gunshots in the north hall.

Peter is by himself in a stairway, weapon drawn, edging around a corner when he hears "Peter, it's me."

He almost has a heart attack, grits his teeth and says "Neal."

"Yeah," Neal says, somewhere in the dark. "Uh. Hi."

"How'd you know it was me?" Peter gropes around until he finds him, eyes just adjusting to the dark. He grabs Neal's arm, feels the leather jacket he's wearing.

"Saw you when you were coming in. Followed you," Neal tells him softly.

"I thought you were done working with these goons," Peter hisses angrily, wrenching him down by his jacket and into a crouch, hidden.

"I am! They're not with me," Neal promises. "I'm freelancing tonight."

"Goddamn diamonds. It's like a Batman comic every time some rocks come into the city, all the evildoers coming out of the woodwork," Peter complains.

"They've got guns, huh?" Neal says and shivers. Neal doesn't like guns.

"Come here. Just...be quiet," Peter tells him, and tugs Neal closer.

Neal ends up leaning back against him, soft hair tickling Peter's chin as Peter listens, waits. Whispers to Jones on his mic.

There's another spate of gunfire and Neal draws his knees up to his chest. Peter ends up kissing his head once, isn't even thinking until he hears Neal's little intake of surprise.

"We got em, boss. Room's clear," Jones comes back.

Peter stands up stiffly, wonders "when will they get the power back on?"

"Mmm, if they cut the cable outside, it might take a few hours," Neal tells him and then Peter's mouth is commandeered by warm, mobile lips.

They kiss for a long, sweet moment before Neal pulls away with a sigh. "Love you."

"What?" Peter says, confounded.

But Neal disappears into the dark.

When the lights go on and everyone is accounted for, Peter lets the two probies guarding the diamonds stand down and peeks in at them.

Winking in their case lights, someone has shaped them into a big, bright smiley face.

  
8

When he gets home, much later, after hours of paperwork to put Koster down for good, he finds his wife awake, sitting on the couch, shirt rumpled and eyes all shifty.

There are two, used wine glasses on the coffee table.

"Neal was here," she says bluntly, and then teethes at her plump bottom lip. "We made out."

Peter groans.

"A lot. I don't even know how it happened. He surprised me in the hallway before bed. He must have come in the bathroom window. He caught me before I could get to the phone, told me it was him and that he just wanted to talk."

She looks pained, wringing at her hands. 

"And?" Peter asks, impatient.

"--and then we ended up dry-humping on the couch. I think...oh Peter, I think he came in his pants, he was so--"

" _El_ ," Peter says, exasperated.

"--enthusiastic! He's just this warmblooded, lovely thing--"

"Elizabeth," Peter snaps. And she quiets, looking at her hands.

"He wanted me to know you were ok. That he was with you all night, so you could come home to me," she tells him, voice small.

Peter sits down beside her and they both consider quietly. 

"I really like him," she admits.

"Me too," he says, and takes her hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

9

He fractures his ankle in Oregon. It's no one's fault, just his for trying to run down a flight of icy stairs. He's apparently a complete bonehead on ice.

It's clean, easy to cast. He calls El and they talk it out, decide he should see through the week, keep off his feet as much as possible, work in bed when he can and then fly back.

He's hobbling around on crutches the second day, stoned out of his gourd on vicodin but can't do much more than make a meeting before the swelling puts him back in bed.

He sleeps fitfully, missing El. Missing his own bed, leg twinging.

By the fourth day, he's weaned off the vics and onto naproxen, had an awkward shower with his clunky, stiff foot hanging out of the curtain.

He turns on a movie that night but ends up crashing, exhausted around 6 pm, snoring.

He wakes up in the middle of the night when his lamp turns on.

Neal Caffrey, in a black tee-shirt and boxer briefs, is standing over him, frowning.

"What are you doing here? Where are your clothes?" Peter asks muzzily, rubbing his eyes to wake up.

"On the chair. You on a bunch of these?" Neal asks, lifting the prescription bottle on the nightstand and shaking it.

"No, I'm not," Peter tells him firmly.

"Awesome," Neal sighs and climbs into bed.

"W-what are you doing?!" Peter sputters as Neal, all lean and graceful, settles right against him, tucking close into his warm body.

"Does this hurt?" Neal wonders, letting his bare knee just nudge up against Peter's, crook over his hips. Peter grunts, dropping his head back. Feels good. Jesus, Neal feels good, soft-skinned. 

Neal makes a worried sound. "It hurts?"

"No. No," Peter says, breathless, shaking his head. "Neal--"

"I can't believe you slipped and hurt yourself. Again. You weren't even being shot at this time. How about staying off the ice, big guy? Just an idea," Neal lectures, but he's got a little smile on his face and he starts rubbing Peter's chest with a warm hand while he does it.

"Neal, wait. Jesus. Wait--" Peter tries, but Neal finds a nipple through his soft tee-shirt and starts running his thumb over it. Peter arches sharply at the feeling, his nipples so sensitive.

His cock stiffens up slowly, tents the thin material of his boxers until he's lifting their placket and the sheet too. He can tell when Neal sees it, when Neal's hands stop moving.

"Shit, s-sorry," Peter blusters.

" _Peter_ \--" Neal says with an ecstatic voice, and reaches down to pet at the lift of Peter's cock through the sheet.

"Oh god," Peter chokes out, and his cock goes crazy at the feeling, twitching messily, needy little prods at Neal's hand for more attention.

"Oh Peter. Oh. Wow," Neal says, mouth fallen open, tagging wetly on his shoulder. Peter's erection finishes its hard swell and with a little sound of pleasure in his throat, Neal grips it firmly.

Peter's snatches a hold of Neal's hand, squeezes in warning. "Don't move."

"Please Peter," Neal breathes, shivering.

And Peter can feel him too, his erection bumping against Peter's hip.

That clever hand seduces, first a smooth, gentling thumb sweep over his hungry glans, and then one sleek, fluid twist under Peter's hand. 

" _Oh_ ," he exhales, arching.

He removes his hand, trembling, and lets him. Lets Neal bring him off with slow, milking jerks. Lets Neal have what he wants. Peter turns his face away, overstimulated. Because Neal Caffrey, god. Neal Caffrey is playing with his _cock_.

Peter's hips hunch up once, out of his control.

"Oh fffff--" Neal throws his head back, a sheen of sweat on his brow. His cock jolts into Peter's hipbone. "That's it. That...do that--"

So Peter clenches his jaw tight and uses whatever leverage he can get to hunch again. Fuck Neal's fist.

"Oh holy shit," Neal slurs. "Oh holy shit, Peter."

Things get sloppy quickly, both of them so shaky, hot for each other. Peter's losing it, taking deep, hard breaths and groaning them out. Neal's mouth, so pretty, keeps giving off these soft whimpers against his shoulder, dampening his tee-shirt as he humps against Peter's hip. 

"You gonna come?" Peter grits out. "In your pants, like you did with El?---" and Neal's fingers spasm, his eyes screw shut and he comes with a little sob, shaking, all thrust up tight against him.

" _Neal_ ," Peter gasps, reaching to hold the kid's hand to him, hold him in place while he finishes himself off with three rough, impatient thrusts into Neal's palm.

  
"I'm spending the night," Neal tells him, dazed.

"Oh really?" Peter says, but he's too worn out to back it up with any heat. Neal snuggles close, rests a knee over Peter's hip and sighs.

"Mmm-hm," Neal mumbles and Peter watches him fall asleep, the way his handsome face goes slack, loses all that cleverness and mischief to sleep, until he looks like a kid, a sweet kid.

He touches at Neal's hair for a while, until sleep catches up with him and he dozes, chest rising and falling slowly, lifting Neal's head.

In the morning, Neal's gone, and there's just a little note on the hotel stationery: 

_Gone to see Elizabeth_. And Peter's heart clenches up, leaving him speechless.

He clambers around the room on one crutch, putting his stuff into his travel bag, swearing under his breath.

He's on a plane at noon, irritable, not knowing what kind of head start the kid got.

  
They're in a state of passionate undress, in his bed when he slams through the door, crutches clacking. 

Neal looks up from where he's sucking at the pink tip of El's breast and makes eye contact with him. The kid's shirt has been ripped off one shoulder, and Peter can see scorch marks on his skin where El scrawled her nails hungrily over him.

El's face is blank with pleasure, eyes low-lidded. She barely looks up at Peter when she says "Wait--" 

And right before his eyes, she grasps Neal's bared sex from his spread fly and draws it to her.

Peter has to hold himself up on the dresser, overcome as he watches Neal being coerced deep into El's warm body.

"Ohhhh, Peter, yes--" El moans for him, arching, making love to Neal's cock with sexy flickers of her hips.

Neal breathes like he's dying, and the muscles in his tight little ass start contracting and trembling as he tries to make love to her back.

"Jesus," Peter says, lost. Sits down hard on the bed beside them and pets shakily, uselessly at his wife's hair. But she turns eagerly into his hand, takes his thumb into her soft mouth and starts sucking it.

Neal's eyes glaze over at the sight and then he's straining to reach too. He takes Peter's pinkie when it's offered and sucks as urgently as Elizabeth, their bodies all caught up in their pleasure.

"Neal," Peter growls, freeing his hand so he can grip them both by the hair, each dark head in hand. They both start moving frantically, skin slicking together while he draws them back so their necks arch. He gives each a hard, claiming kiss. When he takes Neal's mouth, Neal lets out a hurt whine around his tongue.

"You look so good," Peter tells them harsh and gravelly, voice broken. It makes El start to tense up, makes her throw her head back and come with a high moan.

Neal's expression is all wonder and shock, mouth fallen open as Elizabeth's cunt snaps all elastic and sharp around his cock. "I know that look. She's pretty tight when she comes," Peter commiserates and Neal's face turns red and almost ugly as he cries out a curse and comes too, jarring El with greedy thrusts before he finishes.

"Yeah, beautiful. Perfect," Peter tells them after while they fall apart like tired kittens. He pets them both, soothing their flushed, sweaty skin and keeping them close and tied together while he kisses their damp, slack mouths.

  
10

"You seduced my wife," Peter growls and pins Neal. Neal's just barely awake, so he lolls back, letting Peter hold down his bony wrists. He looks up at him blearily.

And then he goes and ruins it by yawning long and unembarrassed, like a tuckered out little kid.

"Damnit, Neal," Peter mutters and kisses him. Enjoys touching Neal's sweet tongue with his own.

Neal's head falls away with a happy sigh and he hugs Peter between his knees, drawing him closer.

"You guys getting up?" El calls from downstairs. "Peter, Neal should probably head out soon, before your day as an FBI agent begins."

Neal sighs, still holding him. "I told you I wasn't going to hurt her," he tells Peter. The fine hairs on Peter's nape rise up, aroused. "I knew it was both of you or nothing."

"How'd you know I would share her?" Peter grumbles, Neal smiling underneath him. 

"Who says we're sharing Elizabeth? I'm pretty sure you're both sharing me," Neal explains, and squeezes Peter's hips between his lean thighs.

"God, look at you," Peter says, almost against his wishes, touching at Neal's messy, fluffy curls. He looks like a goofy kid, not some slick, seductive conman. 

"Peter, Neal!" Elizabeth calls again. "There's just enough time for coffee before I go!" 

They drink coffee together, standing in the foyer. And Elizabeth kisses them both goodbye before she heads off to work, saying "have fun playing cops and robbers! See you tonight!"


End file.
